


Where Two Worlds Come to Meet

by getoffmybarricade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1830’s Paris, Artist!Grantaire, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, M/M, Modern AU, Revolution, The Musain - Freeform, Time Travel AU, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:15:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28408344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmybarricade/pseuds/getoffmybarricade
Summary: Grantaire’s favourite place has always been the Musain. And now he owns it.But then he learns about the rebellion of 1832 and suddenly he feels uneasy about the place.Why does the information unsettle him so much?And why does he feel like he knows these men?And then he meets Enjolras, which should be impossible.Because Enjolras and his friends have been dead for one hundred and eighty-eight years.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

The Cafe Musain stands at the end of the Rue de la Chanvrerie. 

And to Grantaire’s knowledge, it’s been there for almost two centuries. 

He supposes, to an extent, that’s kind of creepy because cafes and inns like these were often used as hiding spaces during revolutions and rebellions and...

And well, death has always sort of scared him. 

But he can shake that thought away easily enough because the Musain is basically his home. Obviously not literally, but there’s so many memories of hot summer days spent taking shelter from the heat and cold winter nights where he would warm his hands by the fire at the front of the room. 

And now the Musain belongs to him. 

But in all the years he’s spent here, he has never been in the back room. And no, look, he swears it isn’t some sort of stupid horror movie situation. It isn’t, it’s really not. 

The key is missing, that’s all. 

And it’s not even like he’s that interested in what’s back there. He supposes that’s really quite lazy of him, but what good will it do him to fret over a locked door?He could unlock it if he really wanted to; he could pick it or just get a key cut, but truthfully he just doesn’t care. 

Okay, he’s lying a bit. 

He did used to get weird vibes from the room when he was younger. But that was only because it was locked back then too and the fact that there was no key freaked him out a bit. That, and maybe he just watched too many horror movies.Anyway, the point is that to an extent, the room does make him uneasy. But like he said, it’s not one of those movie situations. 

He’ll unlock it when it needs to be done. If he needs more storage or something like that. 

But he’s managing perfectly fine, thank you very much, and it’s the least of his worries. 

~~~~~~~~~

It turnes out that running the Cafe Musain wasn’t quite the simple dream he thought it to be. And the fact that running a cafe is his dream, or the closest thing to a dream he had, really did show his lack of ambition, didn’t it? But no, it turns out that people of Paris weren’t so friendly in the winter; the weather was too cold and Christmas had been and gone, leaving January to dampen people’s moods. It also seemed to rain an excessive amount this year and the number of times he’d had to turn people away due to the cafe being too crowded was getting ridiculous. 

Today was, unfortunately, one of those days. 

It was half past seven; dark, cold and wet. Some asshole had thrown a brick through one of the windows the night before and he had to patch it up with a bit of wood and some tape. Safe to say it was now absolutely freezing inside, despite the fire. 

But hey, at least he served good coffee. 

Grantaire sits behind the counter, idly re-polishing glasses and itching for people to just go home. He wants nothing more than for them leave and he can go upstairs and go to sleep. He’s practically falling asleep as he sits. 

Someone opens the door and he visibly groans, immediately deciding he can’t do this any more. 

It’s too cold and too late for his liking and his fingers feel like cubes of fucking ice. 

“No, look, I’m sorry” he says tiredly, trying to subtly prevent the man from entering the cafe. “We’re closing in like two minutes. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.” 

“There’s still people sat here.” He protests, trying to push past. Grantaire sets his jaw and sighs, forcing a strained smile on his face. 

“And they’re going to leave soon. Please, we’re closing.” The man frowns and takes his phone out of his pocket, waving it in Grantaire’s face. 

“I’ll be writing you a complaint.” He says matter-of-factly, and he just raises an eyebrow uninterestedly. 

“You do that,” he said, directing him back out of the door, “this is the middle of Paris, people will still come regardless.” 

It takes a couple more minutes than he expected, but eventually the customers leave and Grantaire slumps against the counter, his eyes heavy with tiredness. 

Just as he’s about to lock up for the night, a young man pushes the door open and stumbled inside. 

“Jesus fuck!” Grantaire growls, storming over. “The sign says closed, goddamn it!” 

The man was very young, maybe only nineteen or twenty, his dark red hair sopping wet and plastered to his freckly face. His eyes are a light blue and creased with worry, clothes also dripping from the rain. He looks simultaneously embarrassed at being there after hours and yet frightened to death. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says quickly, “I think I’ve been mugged and I just needed to go somewhere.” 

Grantaire opens his mouth to speak but stops, frowning. 

“You  _ think  _ you’ve been mugged?” 

“I-yes. Yes, I’ve been mugged.” The man says, his face falling as he pulls out the contents of his pockets that turn out to be nothing more than a few bits of change and an old sweet wrapper. 

“Oh.” Grantaire says carefully, gesturing to the tables, “well, sit down and I’ll make you a drink.” 

“But I haven’t...I’ve got no money.” The man says sadly, his eyes full of confusion. He blushes a deep red and looks down, “I can leave, I don’t want to be any trouble. I didn’t realise it was so late.” 

“I meant for free...” Grantaire laughs, rolling his eyes at his awkwardness. “I’m Grantaire, by the way.” 

“Oh. Um, if you’re sure?” 

Grantaire nods, busy measuring out coffee, and hears a chair scrape as he walks over to the counter. “Thank you.” The man says earnestly, holding out his hand, “and I’m Marius.” He took Marius’s hand and shook it carefully, for he looked...could he say fragile? Was that rude?

“Nice to meet you, Marius. Though it could have been under better circumstances, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, if I hadn’t been robbed and you weren’t closed already...” Marius jokes, attempting at humor but sort of coming across as disheartened. 

“Don’t worry about me being closed. It’s no problem.” He half lies, offering him a smile. 

“Thank you, thats...that’s very...kind. Kind of you. Thanks.” Marius says, very red in the face. 

Grantaire just grins. 

“So Marius,” he says, setting his drink down in front of him. “What do you do?”

“I’m a journalist. I’ve just moved to Paris and I’m hoping to find some good stories here.”

“Yeah, well Paris is about as interesting as gum on the bottom of someone’s shoe,” he smirks, sitting down opposite Marius. He wasn’t purposely trying to further dampen the guys mood, but he wasn’t lying. Better to be open and honest he figured. 

“That’s not true at all!” Marius says earnestly, leaning forwards with a wide look in his eyes. “There’s so many places here full of secrets and memories. It’s why I came.” 

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. Paris is a lot of things; cold, busy, expensive? Yes. But interesting? Not really. Well, tourists always seem to think so but once you really live there, it’s the same as anywhere else. 

“Secrets and memories?” he smirks, “What are you? Five?” 

“No, honestly! There’s lots of great places here.” Marius protests, grinning from ear to ear. 

“Oh yeah? Like what?” he laughs, leaning back in his chair so that the front legs leave the ground. Marius opens his mouth and closes it again before eventually settling on, 

“The Musain.” 

“The Musain?” Grantaire reply’s sceptically, wondering if he heard Marius correctly. He eyes him suspiciously, trying to see if if the guy is really that clueless or thinks he’s funnier than he really is. “Are you trying to be funny?” 

Marius frowns and shakes his head hesitantly, eyebrows drawn close together. 

“I don’t get it.” 

“You know this is the Musain, don’t you?” he says carefully, his eyes running along the edges of the walls, inspecting it, as if he hasn’t grown up here. 

“It is?” 

“Yes?” he says slowly, laughing a little at Marius complete obliviousness to seemingly everything. “But go on, what’s so interesting about the place?” 

Marius’s eyes light up and he leans forwards with a grin plastered over his face. “There was a revolution here.” He says excitedly, with much too enthusiasm for Grantaire’s liking; revolution means death. He doesn’t like death. 

“That’s morbid.”

Marius shushes him and carries on, standing up to apparently get a better look at the cafe. “It was...I think it was the early 1800’s, so I couldn’t tell you how he’s related to me, but some relative of mine fought in it. He was the only named survivor.” 

“Named survivor?” Grantaire says, frowning. “What does that mean?” 

“Well, there was another man that survived but his name was never recorded so no one knows who he was.” 

That seemed a little odd, if you asked Grantaire. How can someone be completely erased from history? Surely there must be someone out there who knew and cared enough to keep his name alive? 

“So, what? The guy’s your great, great, great whatever grandfather or something?” He says eventually, his mind racing. 

There was a revolution here? In the Musain? How didn’t he know this?

“I think so.” Marius nods, tracing his fingers along one of the wooden beams. 

It was weird, Grantaire thought, that considering the way the Musain was built-wooden beans and ancient planks keeping the place together-it probably looked very similar to how it did back then. 

He was standing where men were killed, serving coffee to strangers who sit in the same cafe that revolutionaries did all those hundreds of years ago. 

“A cafe’s a strange place to have a revolution,” Grantaire says after a while, feeling like he’s missing a piece of information. Marius smiles a little and shakes his head, pointing to the street outside. 

“It was their meeting place,” Marius supplies, “I can’t remember their name, it’s escaped me, but they planned the whole thing out here.”

“So they didn’t really fight inside of here?”

To be fair, that made a lot more sense. 

“No, they build a barricade outside after the funeral of some guy called General Lamarque. They hid in here when they realised they were going to loose.” He points upstairs, to the room where Grantaire now sleeps, “Up there, actually. They barricaded the door but the guards must have got through.” 

“They lost?” 

The information unsettles him, to say the least. To think that people were killed in the room that he took as his own sends a shiver of cold fear down his spine. 

“Hugely,” Marius confirms, and the way he says it with such calmness makes him feel uneasy. 

“Why?” 

“There weren’t enough of them.” Marius says simply, “too many guards and not enough of them. They were still students, see. Most of them hadn’t even reached their mid-twenties.” 

“Fuck,” he says under his breath, his mind reeling. 

He was barely older then these people himself. Had he been alive all those years ago, maybe it would have been him...

What was he talking about? It has nothing to do with him; he doesn’t know them. He doesn’t even know of them, their names, nothing. He’s being ridiculous. 

Why should he care about dead revolutionaries from almost two hundred years ago? 

“Come here,” Marius says suddenly, motioning over to the door. As he pushes it open, Grantaire can’t help but imagine desperate revolutionaries trying to keep out the guards. Would they have had guns? Certainly not the ones they have now, of course, but maybe those bayonets? A painful death for sure. 

Outside is almost pitch black, icy cold, but at least it’s stopped raining. Grantaire follows Marius over to where he has stopped a few paces away, now looking up at the large window that overlooks the streets. He shivers, wrapping his arms around his body and notices his breath comes out in little puffs. 

He likes to watch people pass by from that window. He likes to imagine what they’re thinking and saying and pretend that he knows them when he recognises the odd few people over time. It seems a little sad, but he’s lonely here in the city. He doesn’t know anyone and people aren’t the most friendly around here. It’s hard to get anyone to say more than a few words to each other. 

He wonders if things were like that in the 1800’s. He wonders what the revolutionaries were like. Where they kind? Or did they revolt purely for the taste of blood? 

“That’s where the leader was killed.” Marius says softly and it makes cruel fear inexplicably settle in the pit of his stomach. “I think he knew they were going to loose from the moment the barricade was built. But he didn’t surrender. None of them did.”

He doesn’t know these people, he doesn’t even know  why  they rebelled. But somehow it feels like he does, and he can’t explain why. His chest feels tight and his heart pangs, the sudden smell of gunpowder filling his nostrils. 

They knew they were going to loose. Why didn’t they run?

He really, really wishes he hasn’t let Marius into the Musain. 

He turns on his heel and marches back inside, feeling suddenly and overwhelmingly saddened by the new findings. 

“I’m sorry,” Marius stutters, chasing after him. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I know you run the place, it must be terrifying to hear this.” 

“It’s not...it’s not that.” He says stiffly, running a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t they  leave ?” He asks, slamming his hand down rather harshly on the counter. “If they knew they were loosing why did they stay? Why did the leader let them?” 

Marius shakes his head feebly, apparently lost for words, and picks up his coat that he had shaken off. “I don’t know, Grantaire.” He says quietly. “Thank you for the coffee.” 

Grantaire smiles weakly, wondering if he will see Marius again. He half hopes he won’t, not wanting to hear anymore stories about revolutions and death, but Marius seems nice. And he really has no one else he knows around here. 

“Bye, Marius.” He say, the bell tinkling as he leaves. He watches his shadow disappear into the night, making sure he locks the door, and leans back against the wall. 

He doesn’t want to go upstairs where he knows the only thing he will think about is the leader; his name, his appearance, his age, his cause. He knows it will haunt his mind that might. 


	2. Chapter 2

It had been only a few days since Grantaire first leant about the failed revolution held outside of the Musain. And, as he expected, it’s really messed with his mind. 

He can’t get the imagine of the barricade out of his mind; every time he looks out of the windows he thinks of people running, screaming, bleeding...

It’s enough to drive anyone insane. 

And, see, this is why he doesn’t like knowing things like this. It’s all he can think about. And it slowly eats away at him but he just can’t stop wanting to know more, but then he begins to get less curious and more afraid. He knows it will happen. It always does in these situations. 

And despite his best interests, he wants to find out more. 

So he closes early. He locks up the cafe and turns the sign in the window so that it reads ‘ closed’.  When he steps out into the streets, he smells that metallic scent of blood and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, walking quickly away in the hope it will fade. 

As he gets further away from the Cafe it lessens, and he knows this isn’t normal. He knows nobody else would be affected like this. Fucking Marius and his stupid stories. 

He isn’t looking where he’s going, marching forwards with too many things running through his mind, and it’s just his luck that he feels something crash against his shoulder and the sound of body against pavement, followed by a muffled grunt. 

He turns around, preparing to apologise to whoever he walked into, and looks down to see a familiar red-head sprawled out on the pavement. 

“You really do  have awful luck, don’t you?” he says in disbelief, offering Marius a hand up. Marius smiles briefly and gingerly takes his hand, pulling himself up. 

He brushes off his clothes and Grantaire thinks it’s lucky that didn’t rain today, otherwise he would be unfortunately soaking wet. 

“I’m sorry,” Marius apologies, and Grantaire wonders what it would take for him to be even remotely annoyed at anything. “I must have not been looking where I was going.” 

“Don’t be stupid, it was me.” he laughs, rolling his eyes a little. 

“Right. Sorry.” 

“Sorry?” 

“I don’t know why I said sorry.” Marius blushes, wiping his palms on his trousers. “Sorry.” he adds subconsciously, grimacing as he realises what he said. 

“You really don’t have to keep saying that.” Grantaire grins, pleased he has found someone even more socially awkward than himself. It’s not everyday that happens. 

“Right. Yes. Right.” Marius says. He clamps his jaw as if he was about to say something and and swallows, smiling tightly.” 

“You really want to say it again, don’t you?” 

“Very much so, yes.” 

Grantaire barks out a laugh and shakes his hair out of his face as Marius’s face turns a deep crimson. He feels bad that Marius’s paleness and excessive awkwardness really brings out every single one of his emotions for the world to see. 

“Where were you headed?” He asks, and Marius points over across the road as they begin to walk. 

“The library. I need to borrow a book for one of my classes.” 

“The library?” Grantaire says in surprise, not entirely sure if he’s pleased he and Marius are headed in the same direction or not. “Me too, actually.” 

“You are?” Marius says, “Is it for one of yours?”

“My...what?” He says uncertainly, furrowing his brow. 

“Your classes.” 

“Oh!” He laughs, shaking his head, “no, I dropped out of uni. I’m an artist, so...” 

“You’re an artist?” Marius says, sounding unnecessarily impressed, “that’s cool. Have you sold anything yet?” 

“A few,” he shrugs. He sells enough to get by on, as well as working at the Musain, and whilst he could maybe do with a little bit extra he knows how to save. “Nothing massive at the moment, I suppose, but you never know.” 

“Optimism really isn’t a trait I expected of you.” Marius concludes, his stride falling into synch with his own as they cross the road, the cars flying past making their hair whip about their faces. 

“Oh, it’s not.” Grantaire smirks, swiping away his curls and looking briefly at him, “I’m a cynic at heart, don’t worry.” 

“I don’t believe that for one minute.” 

“Well, as much as I appreciate that, if you’re going to declare your love for me and propose to me, you’d better hurry up. We’re here.” He grins as they stop outside of the library, Marius left stumbling over his words with a very red face. He must be able to tell he’s joking, which honestly Grantaire didn’t expect. He sort of assumed sarcasm, or just humor really, would fly over his head. 

Well, maybe he’s too judgmental. 

“You never told me what you came here for.” Marius says as they step inside. Grantaire immediately notices the contrast in volume from almost everywhere else in the city. 

It’s quiet, it’s old-fashioned and it’s quite empty. 

The walls are made of white plaster, a few paintings of Paris in the past hanging on them. There’s rows and rows of wooden bookcases and little wooden tables equally spaced out between them, the young woman at the front desk reading peacefully. 

There’s too many shiny buildings that have replaced the ancient wooden structures of places that have so much history in the city now. It’s partly the reason he loves the Musain and the way it’s clearly so old. Of course, he’d never imagined a  revolution  to have been held there. 

He’d always sort of known it was likely, but it shocked him all the same. 

It takes him a moment to process what Marius said to him. 

“Oh,” he says eventually, giving his head a little shake. “Um, actually what you said yesterday really got me thinking.” Marius smiles wildly, clasping his hands together briefly. 

“I did?” 

“Yes. You did,” Grantaire huffs, “and I can’t stop thinking about the bloody revolution now.” 

“So you came to find more information?” Marius asks, pulling him over to the section filled with historical books and facts. 

“No, I came to hold a revolution of my own right here.” he says sarcastically, running his fingers over the spines of books sticking out of the shelves. 

Marius doesn’t reply and Grantaire sighs, wandering over to where he’s stood. “I thought you were looking for something?” he asks, eyes scanning the library. 

“Oh, I am. But this is more interesting.” 

Grantaire lets out a little chuckle, pulling out a few books that were titled along “ The French Revolution.” 

“Marius, it wasn’t the French Revolution, was it?” He asks distractedly, flipping through pages. 

“No,” comes the reply, “they won that one. The one we’re talking about was a good fifty years later.” 

“Oh.” he says, putting his book down, his lack of extensive knowledge on history really putting him to shame. 

“Check those books though still,” Marius adds as he sees him let it drop, “see if it mentions anything about the June Rebellion.” 

“June Rebellion?” he says thoughtfully, coming to a stop as he sees the name pop up as a title on one the pages. “Was it in 1832?” 

“1832...” Marius walks over to him, sitting down at the table and motioning for Grantaire to do the same. “That sounds about right, yeah.” 

“ The June Rebellion, or Paris Uprising, took place between 5th and 6th June, 1832,”  Grantaire reads, “ students of, and rallied by, anti-monarchist republicans Les Amis de L’ABC sparked the arising of around fifty barricades over Paris following the death of General Jean Maximilien Lamarque, and so the rebellion began.” 

“Jesus,” Marius says softly, “it seems scarier reading about it and really knowing it happened.” 

Grantaire hums in agreement, secretly feeling that twist of nausea in his stomach again at the thought, and continues, “ outnumbered by the thousands, the students were shot and killed, only two survivors remaining; Baron Marius Pontermercy being the only named of the two.” 

“I didn’t realise you had the same name.” he says. Honestly, that makes him feel even weirder. He wonders if they look anything similar. 

“I always forget that,” Marius says thoughtfully, “First and last name both the same. I wish I could meet him, you know? I can’t imagine what it would have been like to see your friends killed right in front of you.” 

“Was he part of the...” he checks the name, “Les Amis de L’ABC then? Or was he just, I dunno, there?”

“He was part of them, I think.” says Marius, “at least, he’s named as one of them?” 

“Wait, there’s names?” 

He isn’t sure if he wants to know their names or not. Knowing them means acknowledging that they were real people. Real people who are now dead, killed. It means he’ll start imagining faces and putting names to them, wondering who was who. Who were friends. How old they were. 

It’s a terrifying thought. 

“I’ve definitely seen them before somewhere. Obviously there isn’t a name for every single person killed on the barricade, but there’s around ten or eleven? I think.” 

“Oh.” is all he can manage. 

He’s not really listening anymore, his mind is somewhere far away. He wonders what it must have been like once they realised they weren’t going to win. Did they accept defeat? Did they loose their bravery and await death? Or did they march into it, heads held high and defiant. He knows he wouldn’t be able to do it. He’d never be brave enough to even dream of it. 

“There it is!” Marius’s voice brings him back to reality and he looks over at where he’s hunched over a book. 

“Hm?” he asks distractedly, dragging his eyes back down. 

“Their names. Look.” 

Marius hands him a bunch of papers held together loosely with a paper clip. He spins the bundle around so that it’s facing him and Grantaire looks down at the page. 

He slides them out of the grasp of the clip and subtly places it in his pocket when no one is watching. (They always come in useful). 

There’s a small box at the bottom of one of the pages, titled;  Les Amis de L’ABC . Underneath a list of names reads: 

  * Enjolras 
  * Combeferre 
  * Courfeyrac 
  * Jean Prouvaire 
  * Joly
  * Bossuet 
  * Bahorel 
  * Feuilly 
  * Marius Pontmercy 



“Was Jean Prouvaire the leader?” He asks. 

He’s wondering why only this person and Marius Pontmercy are the ones with both first and surnames. Could it be to do with status maybe? 

“I don’t think so.” Marius says, “I think Enjolras might have been.” 

His immediate response would have been to say that he thinks the name sounds like a sneeze, but he reminds himself that these people knew Marius’s...whatever he was to him. Plus, it was probably disrespectful considering the guy was, well, dead. 

“Enjolras?” He settles for instead, the name feeling oddly familiar inside of his mouth. 

“Well, his name’s first..” 

“Oh. That makes sense.” 

“I think that’s all there is to know.” Marius says after a while. They’d been scanning books for over an hour at this point and found nothing else on ‘Les Amis de L’ABC.’ 

“Wait, really? That’s it?” Grantaire says in surprise, turning to look at him. 

“Its sad, isn’t it?” Marius agrees, sighing, “it’s like they’ve been forgotten.” 

“Forgotten...” Grantaire repeats, “What about online?” 

“I’ve scanned it for hours looking for stuff. There’s not much more on there and everything I found out I’ve already told you.” Marius says, leaning back defeatedly in his chair. “It’s frustrating but what can we do?” 

“Nothing, I suppose.” 

“Do you ever feel like you know them?” he bursts out suddenly. 

It’s killing him inside. There’s nothing about the rebellion anywhere and all he wants to do is  know.  He wants to know who they are and what they wanted. He wants to know what they looked like, how they dressed, how they spoke. How they died.

And he can’t get that feeling out of his gut; the tugging, nagging feeling that tells him that this shouldn’t be news to him. He should know. 

But he doesn’t know  why. 

And he feels like he’s going fucking crazy, goddamn it! It’s only been a day and he’s loosing it. 

He looks to Marius, hoping for some sort of similar response, but finds him staring at him in confusion. 

“No?” Marius says hesitantly, looking better Grantaire and the book. “Do you?” 

“No.” He lies quickly, hoping to be convincing. “I just thought, you know, since you have the same name...” 

“Oh,” Marius seems to believe him, and Grantaire sighs in relief, winding his scarf around his neck. “Oh.” he repeats. 

“Well I’ll see you later, Marius.” he says, heading towards the door, when he’s stopped by the sudden outburst. 

“Wait, there’s something I haven’t told you!” 

He turns around, heart beating rapidly, “Yes?” He says, somewhat breathlessly. 

“There was a...a rumour, I suppose, that went round at the time after the barricades fell.” Marius follows him outside, speaking quickly. “I don’t think it’s anything important, but it’s interesting.” 

“Go on.” 

“Well, people said there was a huge painting that hung on the back wall of the Musain. Supposedly it was painted by the last member of Les Amis de L’ABC, as a gift-“

“-The unnamed survivor?” He asks. 

“I don’t know. Potentially.” Marius shrugs, “I don’t even know if it’s true or not, but it could be. And after the revolution it just disappeared.” 

“Don’t tell me you believe in creepy magic shit,” Grantaire smirks, not buying it for a second. No, that’s pushing it. 

“No, no,” Marius rushes, “I don’t mean like that. I  mean , people say someone took it. Hid it. But no one ever found it.” 

“Why would anyone take it?” 

“No idea.” Marius shrugs, “maybe it was locked away somewhere?” 

“Maybe.” Grantaire says thoughtfully, and then-

No. 

Absolutely not. 

No way. 

“Marius,” he says carefully, swallowing quickly. He stops in the middle of the pavement, his head spinning. “Did they ever check the Musain for the painting?” 

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there, remember?” Marius laughs, but then he frowns. “But probably not. I mean, why would they check the place it’s gone missing from?” 

Locked away somewhere....

No. He really needs to stop it. He’s being ridiculous. 

Sure, there’s a locked room in the Musain. But it would have been found by now, if he really wants to go down that route. 

There’s no key,  a voice says in his mind,  your family have owned the Musain for centuries. What if the door was always locked? 

“Where are you going?” Marius calls as he takes of running down the pavement. 

He’s dizzy with excitement as he fumbles with the key to the door, pushing it roughly open and not even bothering to close it afterwards. 

He carelessly navigates his way through chairs and tables, tripping over a chair leg at one point, and comes to a stop outside of the door to the back room. 

He places a hand gently on the wooden door, tracing the handle lightly. It’s close to the ground so he kneels down, peering though the key hole. 

It’s too dark inside and he doesn’t think there’s a light in there so he sees nothing. Fuck, if only he’d had that key cut. 

But even as he’s thinking this, he remembers the paper clip in his pocket. He thinks to himself that he’s just getting lucky, it means nothing. He’s not expecting to open the door and see a huge painting on the back wall. That would be ridiculous. 

Completely and utterly stupid. 

He’s good at picking locks; he used to pick them on his fathers alcohol cabinet in his teenage years with his friends to look cool in front of them. 

He doesn’t even speak with them anymore. 

He hears a click after a few minutes and he lets out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. He stands up slowly, his stomach doing flips. 

The door creaks open at his touch and he’s too impatient to let it do so itself. He flings it open, stumbling onto the room, heart beating at a million miles an hour and he sees-

Nothing. 

He sees nothing. 

The room is bare, empty. Bigger than he’d expected, probably the size of a reasonable bedroom, and fucking freezing. 

It’s hard to see as there’s no light, which makes him wonder if maybe this was where the meetings were held; light up dimly with candles, the smell of cigarette smoke and wine filling the air. 

He closes his eyes and he can smell it. Why can he smell it? 

He can hear the buzz of excited chatter, feel the heat of many bodies pressed close in a small space, taste that smoke on the tip of his tongue. It’s only there for a second, shorter than the time it would take to blink, but it’s unmistakably real. 

He feels, for the first time, truly scared. He doesn’t know what’s going on. He doesn’t know why any of this is happening. 

Why he met Marius and his obsession with revolution.

Why the revolution happened here, of all places, and no one ever told him. 

Why he  knows  them, can almost feel the natural instinct to call out their names. 

He grits his teeth and takes one last look around the room, preparing to shut it and lock it again. To never re-open it and never talk about any of it again. 

But then something catches his eye. 

In the left corner of the room is a tray with what looks like an assortment of items on it. He shuffles forwards, drawn to them for a reason he can’t explain, and kneels down on the dusty floorboards. 

The first thing that catches his eye is a gold ring. He picks it carefully up and examines it with the help of his phone torch, which he props up against the wall to give him a better light. It looks like it could be some sort of family heirloom; it’s a simple band with a circle, the letter  ‘C ’ engraved on it. He turns it around between his fingers and carefully replaces it on the tray, moving on to the next. 

He picks up a wooden pan flute, roughly carved, as if it were made by a child. He doesn’t dare try and use it; he doesn’t know who it belonged to and how long it’s been there. He prefers not to think. 

There’s a light blue handkerchief next to it that is surprisingly spotlessly clean. It’s edges are made of white lace, done with intricate hands. As he examines it, he notices a small moth that has been sewed into the bottom right corner. Strange choice, he thinks. 

Next he picks up a small, silver, metal...is that a button? It seems to have come loose from some sort of old clothing the knows he wouldn’t be able to guess. He can just about make out that there looks to be an eagle carved into it. 

A paper fan lays next to it, of all things. Delicate, fading orange leaves have been imprinted onto it. He admires the time put into it but places it down quickly for fear he will put a hole through the thin paper. 

As he places the fan back he hears it knock against something that sounds like it’s made of glass, and he finds a gold rimmed monocle beneath it. He’s always wondered if people really worse these, or if it’s just an exaggeration like the Vikings with their horned helmets. 

He finds a tobacco pipe made from wood with a brass handle and picks it up in admiration, running his index finger across the ridges of the patterns. 

The pipe had rested on a sheet of paper, which when he picked up he realises is torn out of a book. He doesn’t know which, and it is in a foreign language, but whoever owned it seems to have annotated across the stanzas-it seems to be a poem-in red ink. They have beautiful writing, he notices subconsciously. 

The last thing he finds is a red ribbon. There isn’t much to it really, except it looks like it has been roughly cut off of something to be used for another purpose. The edges were frayed a little but that was all. 

Its a strange collection of items, he decides, dropping his hands to his sides. As he does this, his hand catches on the tray and he realises with a jolt that it’s made of a strange material if it’s a tray at all. 

In fact, and he can feel his heart pace starting to quicken again, it feels like canvas. 

He gently slides the items onto the floor, swallowing nervously as his fingers begin to tingle. He turns it around slowly and he feels his soul completely leave his body. 

Even in the dim lighting he can easily make out what the painting depicts; a group of men sat about a table in a room that looks much too familiar for his liking. 

It’s a large painting; big enough so that he can clearly see detail in each man’s face. He can see the light that dances in the chocolate eyes of a man with curl hair and a grin. He can see each flower and it’s type carefully woven into the braid of someone else. 

But most of all, he is drawn to the man at the front of the painting. He’s beautiful, the most beautiful person Grantaire has ever seen, and he would not look out of place amongst the Greek Gods he so carefully studied about at high school. There’s even a glow about him that the others don’t possess. 

His blonde curls are pulled back into a bun on his head, a few strands falling loose into those blue eyes of his. The same eyes that are burning and blazing with passion as he leans forwards onto his both hands, which are resting on the table. He is wearing a red jacket that stands out amongst the simple waistcoats of the other men, and his cheeks are flushed red with something he can’t name. Passion? Anger? Excitement? It could be all three. 

He feels his heart clench painfully and a burst of pain erupts in his left shoulder and side. He drops the painting with a yelp, stumbling backwards into the wall. 

He can hear it all again like before. Only this time it’s accompanied by gunshots and screams, and amongst it all he hears his name called out, clearly. There’s an emotion in the voice that he can’t place; somewhere between fear and relief, and it scares him more than anything else. He looks up, his chest heaving as his head spins and his pulse sky rockets, unable to make sense of anything. He swears he hears his name again, this time whispered softly, fondly, like the last thing somebody says before they fall asleep. 

And then suddenly he is plunged into dark nothingness, as weightless as the skin against his bones. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooo  
> What’s happened?? 
> 
> Also two chapters in one day? What’s happening? I mean, if IS 2:30 am but eh, that’s not the point 
> 
> Lmk me if you enjoyed and thanks for reading <333


	3. Chapter 3

When he opens his eyes it takes a moment for him to remember what happened. 

Well, he says that. He has no idea what actually did happen; all he knows is that one minute he was stood and the next it felt like the very ground beneath his feet just vanished. 

Which of course can’t have happened. 

He must have slipped on something or passed out maybe. That would make sense. Did he eat enough today? Drink enough? Probably not, he thinks. 

His cheek is pressed against something rough and he can smell...is that sawdust? Or maybe just wood? Oh, of course. 

He’ll be laying on the floor of that room. 

He feels his stomach do a flip even as he tries to convince himself nothing happened. He knows this, he knows this. But he’s still shaken. And anyway, he’s unharmed so there’s nothing to worry about. 

As he pushes himself up, dusting off his trousers, he notices the door has swung shut behind him. He supposes he can only hope that it’s not the kind of door that locks itself from the inside. 

He’s about to open it again when his eyes fall onto the painting...or well, where the painting should be. 

It isn’t there. 

And neither are the items that had been balancing on it. 

And in fact, when he looks around, he can see the room doesn’t even look remotely the same as it did however long ago he found it. It’s dark outside too though it was barely past midday when he returned home. Was he passed out all that time?

He’s convinced that maybe he just dreamt this whole thing up and there was never a painting there to be found. He never met Marius at the library-or if he did, it was a brief encounter and he must have fallen asleep there-and therefore there was never a missing painting. 

But that still doesn’t explain how he’s here inside this room now, especially since it was  _locked_. 

But fuck, it doesn’t look like it did before. 

He realises it must have been bigger than he’d originally thought it to be as there’s a large oak table in the middle with a selection of chairs and a few other smaller tables at the back of the room. A few torches are attached to the wall, potentially for a light source, but he can see how much of a fire hazard this because the Musian is made almost entirely from wood. 

And- 

And it looks so familiar. 

Almost like...he swallows as he realises...almost exactly like in the painting which has fucking disappeared. 

He thinks that he might cry out of frustration. He doesn’t know what’s happening and he’s got no one to ask because the only other person he’s spoken to as a friend in the last five years is fucking  _ Marius  _ who has gotten him obsessed with a long ago revolution and dead revolutionaries. 

He kicks the wall in anger, pacing the few meters he can with the tables that were  not  there earlier in the way, and lets a huff of frustration escape his lips. 

He has half a mind to just call Marius and ask him if he remembers anything about a painting so he can confirm what he must have dreamt and what happened. But he’s afraid he’ll look fucking crazy and Marius will think he’s lost it completely. 

But shit, what other choice does he have? 

He pulls out his phone to contact him, but as he turns it on he sees there’s no signal. 

Which is weird because the Musain has one of the best signals in Paris. Maybe it’s because it’s directly in the middle or maybe it’s purely luck, but whatever the reason he’s never had no signal here. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He says under his breath, voice catching even as he’s speaking to himself. 

He lets out a shaky breath and runs a hand through his hair, deciding that maybe he’ll just get a drink, or five, and try and convince himself none of this happened. 

As he pushes open the door, he feels his breath catch in his throat. 

When he walked through the front door of the Musain this evening it was exactly as he left it. Nothing was moved. Nothing was re-decorated. Nothing was weird. 

And now-shit, he can hardly believe this-the photographs of Paris that hang on his walls have  gone . And the shelf on the left wall isn’t there either, as well as the things he’d usually keep on his counter have also vanished.

He can’t fucking take any more of this. Somebody must be messing with him, and he swears to god if he finds out it’s  _Marius_...

_No, no breathe_ ,  he reminds himself,  _calm down. There’s got to be a logical explanation for this._

He knows this, there has to be. But at the moment the world’s really just doing its fucking best to prove him wrong. 

He’s still stood stock-still in the middle of the cafe, not sure what to do with himself. Does he go find somebody? Try and see if they know what’s going on? 

Or does he go upstairs and just try and sleep, drink and forget everything? 

He tries to peer out of the window but it’s almost pitch black and he can barely see a thing other than the odd silhouette of a person. 

He decides to wander around, clear his head, and steps outside into the cold night. The air chills him, making his breath come out in small puffs, and he shivers through the thin t-shirt he’s wearing. He rubs at his arms, eyes stinging a little in the wind, and begins to head out in the direction of his favourite bar. He won’t stay for long, he doesn’t feel like picking up a searing headache, but there’s already a pounding behind his forehead and a shake to his step. 

But even as he’s walking he can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. It’s too dark, darker than usual, and though he walks with his head down he knows there’s something different. The air feels heavier, unfamiliar scents filling his nostrils. At the best of times he has a dreadful sense of direction and is far from observant, and so he often finds himself stopping in the streets and wondering if whatever it was he had noticed had always been there. 

But he is almost absolutely certain that this route he took did not have cobbled pavement. He swears he used to ride borrowed bikes to work before he got the job of owning the Musain. But no, it’s whatever. Like he said; he’s very unobservant. 

He continues to move on but there’s a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that’s telling him he’s missing something. He looks up for the smallest of seconds and he feels the air get knocked out of him. 

He knows why it’s so dark. 

The lamps that line the streets and hang occasionally from walls are not at all like the ones he knows. These are oil lamps, ones you’d see in old tv shoes and period dramas.There’s no way they could possibly replace all of the street lamps in Paris in under a few hours. 

And whilst they’re a sufficient light source, sure, they are no match for the modern ones he knows. 

Something is going on and he doesn’t like it one bit. 

He begins to walk faster, desperate to take his mind off of things, and he’s not looking where he’s going. He’s afraid if he does that he’ll start noticing things he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t like change, he doesn’t like knowing things he shouldn’t. 

He doesn’t enjoy being so alone but he keeps his head down and stays out of other people’s business and he never gets into trouble this way. He never has people who go out of their way to make him miserable but he knows that if he were to open his mouth and really say what he thinks to lots of people, they wouldn’t be so lenient. 

But no, he doesn’t do that. 

He makes sure of it. 

So even now he keeps his eyes on the pavement that he  knows  did not used to be cobbled and tries to hurry. As he rounds a corner, his heart beating at much to high of a rate, he feels the left side of his body completely collide with somebody else. 

This time it’s him who’s knocked backwards and he hits the ground with a dull thud, pain shooting up his spine. 

“I do apologise,” somebody says hurriedly, their voice seemingly deeply worried. 

Grantaire looks up and he’s immediately flooded with relief, because  _ he knows this face.  _ Albeit, it’s still a fairly new one to him but he’s spoken to him enough in these past to days. 

“Oh dear Lord! Your head...it is bleeding! Did I do that when I walked into you? No, no, it is dried. It must have been there earlier. Although-“

“-Marius!” he says, his voice edging on to becoming laughter...but the sort of panicky, stressed kind. He assumes the blood Marius is speaking about is what caused his headache previously. He doesn’t care. 

He begins to babble on as Marius offers him a hand up. “Thank fuck man, something really weird is happening to me and-“ 

But even as he’s talking he realises that maybe this isn’t who he thought it was. He resembles Marius hugely, almost to the point where it’s quite uncanny, but he notices obvious differences. This man’s hair isn’t quite the dark red that Marius’s is; its more of a gingery brown. And his face he covered in far more freckles as well as his nose being slightly more crooked. And when Grantaire is stood looking up at him, he realises that this man is also significantly taller. 

When he gets over the initial shock that he feels, he begins to take note of how he is dressed. He wears a light blue coat with silver buttons that line the entire left side and a pair of beige trousers. Beneath that, Grantaire can see what looks like a cream-coloured waistcoat and a pale pink cravat, the collar of his shirt poking out. 

And somehow Grantaire really doesn’t think that he’s into cosplaying. 

“Do I know you?” the man says, his brow furrowing up as he speaks. “I really do apologise again if I do; I seem to have a rather inefficient memory when it comes to faces.” 

“I’m...no, I don’t think so.” Grantaire says hurriedly, twisting his hands together behind his back where the man can’t see. He speaks like he’s never heard of modern language and if he had been in any other situation he might have laughed. “I’m sorry I most have...shit, I thought you were someone else.” 

“You said ‘Marius’, did you not?” 

Grantaire pauses and wonders if maybe this man knows him. Maybe he could take him to him. Wait, no. He doesn’t want that. He barely knows Marius, he’s getting really carried away here. No, he just needed a familiar face and he mistook this man for him. That’s all. No need for confusion. 

He swallows thickly and nods his head in a sort of disjointed away. 

“Then that is me. Are you in need of something?” 

Grantaire blinks. 

This is Marius? 

It seems all to coincidental that this ‘Marius’ looks so much alike the Marius he knows. Perhaps they are family. But they look around the same age and he highly doubts that two men from the same family born obviously so close to each other would be given the same name. 

He’s like the Marius he knows but from a different universe.

And then it slowly begins to dawn on him. 

“Pontmercy?” He asks shakily, his voice wobbling on the last syllable. Marius looks at him strangely and attempts to smile. 

“That would be correct, yes.” 

Marius Pontmercy, from a different century. 

Marius Pontmercy, like in the fucking painting. 

Marius Pontmercy, like the name in the history book in the library. 

“What year is this?” He whispers, a gaping hole beginning to form in his chest. 

“Are you quite alright, my friend?” Marius says in shock, nervously scratching the back of his neck, “did you hit your head on the ground as you fell?” 

“What fucking year is this?” he repeats, swallowing down the lump in his throat. 

There’s a pause and then Marius says, 

“1830?”

One time when he was younger he climbed a tree in his grandfather’s backyard. He climbed so high that when he looked down he felt his stomach flip over. He let go as a sudden wave of fear overcame him and he fell ten feet to the ground, landing on his back. It was as if every wisp of air was sucked from his lungs on impact as he lay there struggling to breathe, to inhale, to exhale. Anything. 

That is exactly how he feels now, trying to remember how to form coherent thoughts, the words bouncing against his skull. His brain stutters for a moment and his eyes seem to unfocus as his thoughts catch up with the information received. 

He barely hears Marius walking away. He is too busy trying to find his grip on reality that he knows is fading away. He feels the panic begin to build up like an unstoppable snowball in the pit of his stomach. And he tries to tell himself that fear is simply brain chemicals and he should try and analyse the situation but fuck! How is he supposed to try and navigate his way out of this? He feels like his heart is about to implode, explode-whatever. He doesn’t know the difference but he doesn’t care. The only thing he does know is that he is absolutely fucking terrified. 

He doesn’t how he got here. 

He doesn’t know  _ why _ he is here. 

The only thing he is absolutely certain of is that this is not his Paris. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)))))  
> Thank you for all the lovely comments on the last two chapters you made my entire day :)))  
> Thanks for reading<3333


	4. Chapter 4

So, Grantaire knows two things. 

The first is that somehow, and he doesn’t know why, but he is in the wrong century. 

Which in itself is terrifying, but weirdly that’s not his biggest concern. Which actually brings him to his second point. 

He has nowhere to go. 

Nowhere to sleep, no money that would be of any use, and he’s probably going to freeze to death out here. He’s also not wearing appropriate clothes for this century - and he can’t get over how bizarre it is that he even has to consider this - but it’s really causing him some concern at this point. 

He supposes that his best option is to try and find shelter in a doorway or somewhere, and it’s only now that he realises how fucking cold it is. Would it have been too much for the universe to have at least given him a  _ slight  _ chance of not catching hypothermia? 

Whatever. 

He pulls his bare arms around himself and shivers violently, feeling goosebumps and hairs stood on end. He lets out a deep sigh, sticking close to the shadows so that he goes by unnoticed. 

In retrospect, this might not have been a great idea. His point being that sure, he was a little less on display with his fucking twenty-first century clothes, but he also couldn’t really see anybody within two feet of him. 

So it’s safe to say that when he suddenly feels a body slam into him and then the rough bricks of some old wall press into his back, he wasn’t expecting it. 

He only sees the glint of metal for a second before its being pressed against his neck, but it’s enough for him to wonder if he’s going to die there and then. He closes his eyes and decides that even if he’s killed by this guy on the streets holding a knife to his neck for no apparent reason, it’s not the strangest thing to have happened to him. 

By a long shot. 

“Empty your pockets.” the man said harshly into his ear, his knee digging into Grantaire’s stomach.

“I don’t have anything. I don’t-“ he protested, his voice trembling and the sharp edge of the knife pressing further into his neck. He can feel it beginning to draw blood. 

He starts to panic a little - and really that’s the understatement of whichever century he’s in - and he’d be tempted to try and grab the guys wrist if he weren’t so afraid of, you know, having his neck slit open. 

“Don’t lie. Show me what’s in them.” the manhisses again and Grantaire begins to grow irritated. He’s already said he has nothing and if he did he’d have handed it over a long ago. Believe it or not, having a knife to the throat wasn’t particularly pleasant. 

“See, I  _ would  _ but if you haven’t noticed there’s a knife pressing into my neck.” he snaps, clenching his jaw in frustration. “Now if you wouldn’t mind, could you take it away and I’ll show you I have nothing to give.” 

“Why, you little-“ he feels the knife press deeper in and he begins to choke a little, so tempted to claw at his hand but knowing it would cost him. Well, it seems either way he’s going to die, isn’t he? His airways are being cut off and he’s too scared to swallow for fear it will result in the blade swiping across his skin. 

“Montparnasse?” 

The pressure from the knife lessens a little and Grantaire honestly thinks that maybe he’s already dead and gone to heaven. Did they have a heaven in the 1800’s? Probably. He’s also never appreciated air quite so much as he’s doing presently. 

“Is it not a little late for you out here, Monsieur?” The man - Montparnasse, was it - says. There’s a sharp bite to his tone and Grantaire has a feeling that he’s been caught in the middle of a rather unfortunate situation. 

There’s another man, he realises, the one who caught Montparnasse’s attention. Grantaire can’t see him properly but he sounds young, maybe around his own age, and from what his limited eyesight provides him with, he notices he’s wearing a rather large top hat. 

“And I thought we agreed you would leave our men alone as we do for yours?” the second man says, and Grantaire hears him step closer. 

“This isn’t one of your men. Don’t think I won’t hesitate to-“ 

“-To what? Pin me against a wall too and press a knife to my throat?” The man moves forwards and he catches a glimpse of him for the first time. 

He’s quite small, but that apparently doesn’t stop him from being so terrifying. His dark eyebrows are drawn close together, eyes narrowed down. He’s dressed in clothes that Grantaire assumes are wealthy ones and his manner is so dangerous that he worries what he will do once Montparnasse lets him go. No, sorry,  _if_ he lets him go. 

The man steps even closer, pushing his shoulders out. 

“Because I can assure you, Montparnasse, that if you lay so much as a finger on me, my companions, this man here or anybody whilst in my presence, we won’t be so...how to put it? Ah, yes.  _ Forgiving. _ _”_

Grantaire swallows, praying for a chance to escape whilst he can, but it doesn’t seem as if the two man have finished yet. 

“I am not afraid of you. Give me one reason I should-“ 

“-I could list a multitude of reasons to the police that would have you and your friends locked up for life. The only reason I haven’t as of yet is because of the child and his sister. I don’t doubt they would survive on the streets but neither one of us wants it to come to that, do we?” 

When Montparnasse doesn’t reply, the man gestures for him to put the knife down and by some form of miracle, he does - albeit reluctantly. Grantaire immediately steps away from him, his eyes not leaving his back. Montparansse smirks at him cruelly. 

“Now, ‘Parnasse,” the man says softly, lingering on the use of the nickname with cold malice, “I suggest you return to Thenardier and not breath a single  _word_ of this to him. We both know it wouldn’t end well for either of us, and I don’t intend to have blood on my hands tonight.” 

Montparnasse’s smirk drops and he squares his shoulders back, eyes glinting dangerously. His lips curl into a snarl and his blue eyes glint with anger, and for a moment Grantaire thinks he’s going to lunge forwards and grab the other man by the throat. The way his fingers twitch in the direction is not comforting. 

He looks as if he wants to protest, but instead he settles for a dark glare. He nods his head once where he stands and then stalks off into the darkness, pausing only to lock eyes with Grantaire for a moment before he turns his head and disappears down the alleyway. 

Grantaire shivers and lets out a sigh of relief, knees threatening to give way. He swallows shakily and brings a hand gently up to his throat. When he brings his fingers up to his face he can’t see the blood in the darkness but he can definitely feel the wetness on them. 

“Thank you.” Grantaire breathes, not wanting to even begin to imagine what could have happened had this man not been here. However the very same man seems to not want to receive any thanks, and waves away his honesty. 

“Are you alright?” the man asks instead, gesturing for Grantaire to follow him out into the open. He directs him to one of the street lamps taps his own chin to indicate him to lift his head up. The man steps closer to him, apparently examining where the knife had been pressed into him. 

“I’m - yes, I think so. Yeah.” 

“Good.” the man nods thoughtfully, biting the inside of his cheek. He steps back, peering over at him. “It’s not very deep. It should quickly heal over by morning.” 

“Thank you.” Grantaire repeats, and this time the man smiles a little, titling his head to the side. He’s still a little wary of him, despite him basically saving his life, and the dark look that had swept across his face earlier was enough to make him shiver. He didn’t want to be on the receiving end of  _ that  _ anger. 

And then all of a sudden the man breaks into a huge grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he does so. He holds out a hand and Grantaire takes it in bewilderment, eyes probably as round as saucers as the man shakes it so enthusiastically he’s afraid his arm might fall right off. 

“I’m Courfeyrac,” the man grins, finally letting go of his hand, “Or Courf. Either is fine.” 

And now that he’s said it, Grantaire is sure he’s heard that somewhere else before. It seems familiar, and it’s not a particularly common name in his century, and he wanders if he has a connection to Les Amis de L’ABC...

In fact, he’s almost sure of it. He can recall Courfeyrac’s dark eyes and the invisible string that seems to tug his lips into an endless grin from the painting he found earlier. 

He makes a mental note to somehow bring it into the conversation. 

“Grantaire.” Grantaire says, completely and utterly perplexed. “Or R, i suppose.” 

It’s like in the minute between him almost being murdered and Courfeyrac passive aggressively threatening what Grantaire thinks might also have been murder, (he’s not entirely sure), this man has just completely changed personalities. 

And seriously, Grantaire has been informed quite frequently that he has a dangerous swing in attitudes, but this unlike anything he’s seen. 

He’s not sure if he should laugh or run. 

“R!” Courfeyrac exclaims, throwing his head back as he laughs, “A man of humour, I see.” 

“I’m glad  _ somebody _ gets it, at least.” Grantaire grins, the feeling of dread that’s been settling in his stomach disappearing a little. 

  
So Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says as they walk down the street opposite the way he arrived, “tell me; where are you from?” 

He really should have anticipated this better. 

“Oh, um, I’m from...you know, south.” he replies very unconvincingly, but it seems either Courfeyrac is oddly gullible, eager to trust or just maybe not too bothered, as he nods happily and gestures around with his arm. 

“Ah, a man of mystery.” he says solemnly, nodding his head. He leans closer, placing his arm around Grantaire’s furthest shoulder and lowering his voice. “How very... _ enticing _ .” Courfeyrac bats his eyelashes in a way that really should be so, dare he say it, attractive? He bites down on his tongue idly and _cackles_ \- honest to god,  cackles \- at Grantaire’s panic, before straightening himself back up and ruffling his hair.

He winks and Grantaire knows he’s only messing with him, but he’s got a feeling this is only a small section of Courfeyrac’s personality being revealed. 

“Can I ask, who was that man?” Grantaire asks, “you know; the one who tried to kill me. Also  _ why  _ did he try to kill me?” 

“That,” Courfeyrac sighs, “was Montparnasse. He’s one the Patron-Minette. He is terribly unpleasant but thankfully it was only him you met this evening.” 

“‘Only him’?” Grantaire says nervously, and he can’t help checking around in the shadows for any signs of life. 

“There’s around ten of them, and he is far from the worst.” 

“He’s  not  the worst?” he asks in disbelief. 

“Not by a long shot.” Courfeyrac says gravely. 

He shudders to think what might have happened if he’d run into an encounter with one of the others. 

He remembers something Courfeyrac said earlier on all of a sudden, and perhaps it might be best to keep his curiosity to himself (after all, if he’d taken his own advice earlier he wouldn’t even be in this mess) but he figures that it’s best if he knows as much as possible. He doesn’t want to be caught in any similar situation again. 

“He said I wasn’t ‘one of your men,’” Grantaire says carefully, unsure if its going to overstep some sort of boundary. “What does that mean?” 

Courfeyrac seems to debate his answer, a crease forming between his eyes 

“My friends and I are not very well...liked...by the government here.” he says eventually, “and with the plans we have in place-“

“-What plans?” he interrupts before he realises. “Sorry.” he adds, “What plans?” 

“Ah, now that is a story for a different eve,” Courfeyrac says vaguely, and though Grantaire is almost completely sure he’s talking about the revolution he knows will happen in just a few years, he decides its best to leave it be. He nods, and Courfeyrac continues. 

“With our plans, we fear that should any of the Patron-Minette harm any of our friends...we wouldn’t be quite so friendly. And if we were to be imprisoned, it would jeopardise everything.” 

Grantaire still doesn’t understand and he seems to sense this, delving further into it. 

“You see a few years ago we would have actively sought out the Patron-Minette and have them captured - and we were rather good at it, may I add - and at least half of their group were caught. This of course resulted in a retaliation that we so naively weren’t expecting and one of my friends was injured. To this day, his leg still isn’t right. 

So we came to an agreement; we wouldn’t spend our time trying to find them on the contract that they wouldn’t hurt any of our members. Now of course if we come across them in the streets we make sure to try and help anybody they’ve hurt, but we’re not always as successful. And it didn’t seem as if he was going to let you go.” 

Grantaire takes a moment to consider that. He literally could have been killed. 

That is more terrifying to think about now than it was whilst it was happening. But, hey, at least he’s got a cool story to brag about once he gets home. Obviously leaving out the minor details such as being in the complete wrong century, but that’s irrelevant. 

“And there’s a kid too, right?”   
“Pardon?” Courfeyrac says, frowning. Grantaire wonders if perhaps he misheard but then he seems to realise and snaps his fingers in a gesture that seems to imply he does know what he’s talking about.

”Oh, yes. He’s quite young, perhaps nine? And he’s the son of their leader. We don’t know what would happen if he was left alone.”   
  


Grantaire nods, understanding.

“So, my dearest R,” Courfeyrac continues, once he recovers himself, “I myself have never left Paris, but even I can assume that the fashion down there is very different.” 

Grantaire freezes and nods his head sort of stiffly, like he’s not really sure if it’s the correct answer. In all fairness, he isn’t sure. 

“...Yes.” 

“Do you have money?” 

“Now that’s just rude.” Grantaire says, nudging Courfeyrac with his shoulder. 

“No, no,” Courfeyrac assures him, “I simply mean - or I’m  _assuming_ ,  as one really shouldn’t do - that this is your first day in Paris? Am I wrong? I feel as if I am not.” 

“You...would be correct. Yes.” 

“So,” Courfeyrac comes to a halt, turning to face him, “do you have money?” 

“Well...” he withers under Courfeyrac’s intense stare, “no, not exactly.” 

“I have decided that you are very unlikely to murder me in my sleep and therefore I would like to invite you to share my apartment until further notice.” Courfeyrac declares, threading his arm through Grantaire’s and hauling him along the pavement. 

“Wait, wait, no. I can’t do that. I can’t...i won’t be able to repay you. Thank you, but no.” 

Courfeyrac sighs but doesn’t stop walking, or even turn to look at him. 

“Very well. I am not inviting you, I am telling you. You  _ will  _ share my apartment - I live comfortably, I will be quite alright - you have no need to repay me and I will help find you work.” 

Grantaire wonders how this could be the same guy that frightened away a murderer. 

He’s kinder than he ought to be, he thinks, and if it were any other situation he’d decline the offer and insist he was going to be fine. But in reality - or in this fucking reality at least - the time he’s spent on the streets so far haven’t been great, have they? 

He’ll find a way to pay him back, he swears to himself. 

So he follows Courfeyrac inside, gratefully taking the change of clothes he offers him, and wonders who’s home has replaced the one that all these years ago belonged to this man. He isn’t clued in enough to be able to work out what street he’s on at the moment, but he decides he’ll have enough time to find out before he tries to discover how to get back home. 

And yet even as he lays there at night, staring up at the ceiling of a house he doesn’t recognise, in a century he doesn’t know, he can’t help but realise that none of that concerns him as much as it should do. 

What really pains him to think about is that unless anything changes, in just over two years the man that has already shown him so much kindness is going to meet his end with a bullet to his heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyy so I know I said it would be quick (ish) updates but, ah, that’s not gone to plan has it?   
> Oh well 
> 
> I also just decided that the most Courfeyrac thing to do would be to appear as this terrifying, scary character who then is just the complete opposite, but I mean it’s Courf so...
> 
> Thank you for reading 
> 
> Comments and kudos are *so* appreciated <33

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter!! I’m excited for this one 
> 
> (Side note: does anyone know what you’d call a grandfather from the 1830’s?? Like how many ‘great’s is that?) 
> 
> Thanks for reading :))  
> If you enjoyed please leave a comment <3


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